Thursday, April 7, 2011

Wanderlust part 23 "Ta-Kill-Yah"

And here we are on this fine, fine Thursday, folks. Is it bed time yet? I feel like I could do with a few more hours of beauty sleep. Instead I'll post part 23. It's a bit longer than the norm. I hope no one minds.

I'll cop to writing ahead at this point. The story is getting away with my brain. And we are within kissing distance of 30K already. If you can believe that.

Today is looking like a good day to walk his fatness. There's talk of a 70 degree day. That's cool, but no hotter! Any hotter than that and I get irate. ;)

Enough rambling. Off you go...

part 23
by Sommer Marsden

Guilt had gotten into me, insinuating itself into my joints and my bones like smoke. I couldn’t not make the call.

“Really come home,” he said.

My heart broke a little and I sighed, running a hand through my rain damp hair. “No. Jackson I called to tell you that you deserve better. You deserve better than me.” My throat was clogging with the tears I refused to shed. Why was this whole freedom process turning me into such a motherfucking girl?

How about just a human? One with feelings.

“Don’t be stupid, Aurelia. Just come home. We’ll talk. We can fi—“

“We can’t fix it,” I said. “There’s nothing to fix. I don’t love you, Jack,” I said. He rarely let me call him Jack. He said it reminded him of horror movies with axes and old hotels. “I mean I love you. I think you’re great. I think you would make a wonderful husband to a girl who loved you like that. Who really appreciated you.”

“You’re being silly, Really. You appreciate me.”

“Do I? Are my many affairs and caustic attitude how I show my appreciation of you?”

He was silent. I could picture him, brooding and pacing the apartment. “We can make it—“

“You can’t make something out of nothing. Not really, Jackson. We can’t make this a marriage. I want you to file for divorce. I want you to do what you need to do and when I call you tell me what I need to do. Who I need to talk to. Whatever will make it easier for you, I’ll do it. Whatever you need, I’ll do.”

“I need you to come home, babe,” he said. Jackson had always been happy just to have me. Insanely, he did not care about the terms. That made him both a saint and a lunatic.

“That’s the one thing I will not do,” I said. “We’ll talk soon. You think it over.”

I hung up before he could say anything and headed back to the ladies room.


“Tequila.” Johnny slammed the bottle down and I eyed it with the same hesitation I’d show a snake.

“Um…I call it ta-kill-ya. And for a reason.”

“Just a few.”

“A half.”


“Pusher!” I returned.

We both laughed softly as I spun in a circle to take in the cabin. My father had a cabin. A “hunting” shack that was considered a luxury home to most folks. This cabin was more what I pictured when I thought of a hunting shack. One floor—one big room, really—and a loft. A small kitchenette that opened into the main room where there was a fireplace and a small alcove that served as a very informal dining room.

The steps that led to the loft were warped and crooked and gorgeous, in my opinion. Above a railing ran along the loft and I could barely see the foot of a big bed up there. A dresser, a chair, a lamp. I couldn’t wait to stretch out up there and watch the sky through the small skylight I could see.

Johnny poured two shots. There had been dishes including shot glasses, but no food barring the dozen or so cans in the pantry.

We’d stopped at the local shopping center, me grabbing a bit of food and toothpaste. I’d been reminded not to buy anything with artificial color. To which I’d given a playful salute and had received a not too playful smack on the ass for my efforts. Johnny had hit the liquor store and emerged with not just that bottle of wine, but a bottle of really nice tequila.

“Come on, Really, man up,” he said and slid the shot to me.

I snorted, listening to the somehow hypnotic sound of the rain on the roof. “Did you just tell me to man up?”

“I did. I’ll even build you a fire if you do the shot.”

“Too many and they make me sick,” I warned.

“Don’t take too many,” he advised and raised his shot glass to me. I clinked with him and we both sucked down the cool fire of tequila.

“Now about that fire,” I muttered, sputtering just a bit. Smooth, Aurelia, very smooth… “I could use some warming up. Wearing the same clothes over and over is fucking with my fashion esteem. And I’m cold.”

“We’ll stop in the morning for new duds if you need them.”

“Duds? What are you, a cowboy?”

He moved past me, seeming bigger while in motion than when standing still. It was sort of like having a train coming at me. He touched my belly for an instant as he passed and I remembered his promise of me being dessert. I also remembered—guiltily—my sneaked call to home.

It only took him a few minutes to build that fire and by then I’d poured two more shots, the first one having created a pleasant warmth in my gut. “Ready?”

“I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I didn’t say that. It doesn’t like me sometimes.”

We toasted, did the shots, slammed the glasses on the breakfast bar. “Who’d you call.”

I swallowed hard and studied him. He knew I’d done something, lying made no sense. “I called Jackson and told him to start divorce proceedings. He deserves better than me.”

“No one deserves better than you, Snowflake, if you love them back. You simply don’t. You’re not the problem. It’s them match up that’s the problem.”

“You’re pretty wise for a wanderer who does odd jobs and won’t tell me shit about himself.”

“What do you want to know?”

This time he poured the shot. I felt bold and gutsy but not stupid as I downed the pale liquid. I would not use my first shot to ask about the box. That is what he expected. I don’t like being predictable.

I took off the bomber jacket and dropped it. I curled his flannel shirt around me—tight to my body like a wrap and shivered. “What’s your middle name?”

He gaped at me and drank his tequila. “Turner.”

“Family name?” I smiled.

“Christ, what else could it be, yeah?”

I laughed now—a slightly buzzed giggle laced with real laughter. I probably should have eaten more if we were going to do the college drinking thing.

“Anything else?”

“Nope,” I said. I was lying, we both knew it, but there it was.

I stood in front of the fire and poked it with the iron tool. “Who owns this place?”

“A friend from high school. His family owned it and then all of them died in a plane trip to Florida for vacation.”

“My god,” I said. “That’s awful. Your friend survived?”

“He’d stayed home because of a girl. A girl he liked. He wanted to take her to a concert and decided that impressing her and being with her trumped fun and sun and nearly naked beach bunnies. That crush of his saved his ass.”

“Did he end up with the girl, at least?”

“Nope. But he is happily married now with two point three children and a dog.”

“Point three?”

“His wife has a bun in the oven.”

I remembered his sudden and frightening rage at my pregnancy joke but said nothing. I wanted to embrace the calm and peace we had at the moment.

“That’s nice.”

Fire danced, orange and yellow in the hearth and when his arms wrapped around my waist, I leaned back against him. My heart was thrumming wildly, I wanted to fuck him all over again, but the air—the mood—in the cabin was different. There was a chance for discovery here and I’m nothing if not nosy.

“I’m sorry again for going all caveman on your ass back there,” he said against my neck. Before I could answer, his teeth nipped at me, stirring lust and heat in my groin.

“It’s okay.”

“Not really, but you’re good to play along that it is.”

“It would be insane to assume that we’d make it three thousand miles plus and never have an argument. Or a misunderstanding, I added.”

“But still.” He dropped to his knees behind me and my eyes drifted shut.

“I’m not mad,” I breathed. For some reason I wanted to reassure him. I wanted us to be cool.

He turned me and I let him, he undid my jeans and I let him. He peeled them down and dragged my panties down too and I let him. “Spread your legs a little, Snowflake. I’m ready for that dessert.”

My knees were watery and I swore I was going to fall on my ass, but I did it. I parted my legs just a bit until he had his tongue pressed to me, tasting me. Thick, strong fingers wormed into my pussy and started to thrust gently as he lapped at me. “You are sweet, did you know that?”

I said nothing. What was there to say without sounding stupid or crazy or drunk.

“You taste sweet but when you come you're a little spicy. I like it.”

He thrust his tongue into my opening along with his fingers and then painted the rigid tip of his tongue over my clit. Flattening his tongue he slid it from pussy to the hood of my clit and back down again. All the while, he thrust with those substantial fingers so that I couldn’t catch my breath or find a balance.


“I know. I can taste it. Come for me, Really.”

With one hand I steadied myself against the stone fireplace. I held on so I didn’t fall because I felt like I was drifting. Floating above the ground instead of standing on it. When I came, he cupped my ass with one hand to help me find a balance, his other fingers still buried knuckle deep in my cunt.

When I stood straight he started to stand, but instead moved his shoulder into my belly and picked me up in a fireman’s carry.

“What?” I gasped.


“Bed?” I asked.

“Too far,” he said and put me on the sofa. I was on my knees, my chest pressed to the back cushions, my arms draped over the back of the sofa. It stood in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace and behind me I could see rain dotted windows that showed a gray day fading to blue.

“Spread your legs, Really,” he grunted, moving in behind me. He pushed his fingers back into my cunt, curled them so my juices flowed all over again, my body echoing the orgasm I’d just had.

He was in me then, a slippery thrust and then a rocking motion. All of me filled by him, moved by him and it felt like held by him. I had never felt safer for some odd reason.

It didn’t take much. His arms came over my arms and grasped my hands, fingers intertwined. His mouth settled on the nape of my neck, making my skin tingle and prickle with energy. His chest smashed to my back and he thrust into me deeply as I kept my hips back and my ass a bit high. When he came he said “baby” instead of “Really” and for some reason that made me come again.

It was small and sudden and sweet, that orgasm.

Teeth clenched my earlobe and I laughed. “Ow.”

“Liar. Not ow.” He found my nipples and pinched. “Your nipples got hard, so if it was ow, it was a good one.”

“Fine, be that way,” I teased.

We both fell back, watching the fire instead of the TV that sat dead and silent two feet to the right.

“What’s in the box, Johnny?” I asked. I didn’t know why it was so important. It just was.

He stood and walked away from him, his naked body so good to look at. Power and masculinity and energy in a big, tall package of muscle.

I didn’t think he would answer. I thought he was angry. But he poured two more shots and came back to me, dropping to the sofa. There was an afghan along the back of the sofa and I covered us.

“My son,’ he said.

I blinked, an irrational surge of fear moving through me at first. But I knew damn well that box was not big enough for a kid or even a part of a kid. It was no bigger than a cigar box.

“Pictures of my son. He’s dead,” Johnny said.

“Oh, I—“

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he said. “No offense, but I hate that shit.”

I shut my mouth, nodded. I knew the feeling. When my mother died I wanted to punch every person that said “I’m sorry.” Including my dad. I had to respect Johnny's feelings.

“Okay,” I said because I had nothing else to say. “So you’re married?”

I would be fine with it if he were.

“No. Never was. I was supposed to be but then David died and that was that.”

That was that.

“It’s not uncommon,” I said, urging myself to shut the fuck up.

“I know. The loss of a child is too great for a relationship and all that shit.” He drank his drink and I drank mine.


“That’s enough for now, Really,” he said. He shut his eyes but pulled me in against him just as I was starting to feel alienated. He tucked his jaw along the top of my head and I draped the afghan a little higher on us. “That’s enough for now, okay? Now you know about my big secret box. I told you. Which means I trust you. Do you understand that?”

I nodded.

I understood.

photo credit me...


  1. Bummer. I was right about the contents of the box. I was kinda hoping you were gonna surprise me again.

    Happy Friday!

  2. Oh, geez...That's what's in the box. A whole lotta sad. Poor Johnny Rose.

  3. CJ, lol. Sorry to disappoint you! He's not done yet, if it's any consolation.

    T., Now we knew he wasn't all sunshine and lollipops. This is *me* we're talking about ;) lol


  4. Excellent, excellent. Hawt sex and secrets. Perfect start to my day.

  5. Oh, that's sad. That ending there. I wasn't expecting dead for some reason. Sniff.

  6. HOT!!!

    Once again I felt swept away into their little world. I forgot to add that Johnny seems very similar to my current lover. ;)

    Okay, I'm going to go backwards now. To quote Inigo Montoya, I'm going "back to the beginning".


  7. Thx, Cass :)


    Welcome, Scarlett. Anyone who can quote The Princess Bride is a friend of mine.

    I can tell you all, I think it's going to get harder and harder to deliver this in short chunks. But a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do...



What sayest thou?